#moonslament

Hinatsuru x Kokushibo

The water was chillier than she had anticipated. She released a gentle sigh as her toes curled against the smooth pebbles beneath the surface, the pond's tranquillity disrupted solely by the ripples emanating from her ankles. The forest buzzed around her—cicadas buzzing in the far-off canopy, the sporadic rustle of leaves as something small zipped through the underbrush. She tilted her head back, allowing the dappled sunlight to filter through her flower-petal hair, casting golden patterns across her cheeks.

Slowly she sighed and kicked her feet back; indeed, this was paradise. The water glimmered around her like liquid silver, capturing the sunlight in fleeting bursts of brilliance. Her toes broke the surface, sending droplets soaring through the air—each one suspended for a moment before gravity pulled them back down. Somewhere beyond the trees, Ju Fa would be frowning at her absence, but that thought only made her smile grow wider. Let him stew. A millennium of obedience warranted at least one stolen afternoon.

“Are you going to be grumpy the entire time?”

Plotted starter for @moonslament

The human was sitting on the boulder, waiting for the demon to reveal itself after he had sensed it minutes ago. He told the other six former slayers to escape and get as far away as they could, as they would only be in the way. However, the truth was that none of them stood a chance against this demon from what he could sense from the aura alone. The moon was high in the sky as everything surrounding him was silent, not even the wind blowing through the treetops. Bankotsu could only hear his breathing. The male's grip tightens around the hilt of Banryū, trying to give him an anchor to reality.

The air was growing heavier as something entered the clearing, which caused the mercenary's eyes to glance over at the demon standing tall and composed. A shiver raced down his spine as he read the words in the demon's eyes: Upper Moon One. A dry cackle escaped his lips as he knew that he was going to die this night. His body was trembling as his instincts were screaming to run, but he refused to allow the demon to get any further while his comrades were escaping. He told them to keep riding the horses and not look back, that he would catch up when the sun rose.

Standing up, he rolled his shoulders, trying to relax his tensed muscles as he needed to remain calm and collected. A smile spread across his lips as he spoke with glee, “I didn’t expect to meet a legend tonight.” Bankotsu’s heart thundered, but his stance didn’t waver as his eyes narrowed, waiting to see how the demon would react, his grip not once leaving his sword.

He lay there with his wife, the futon warm where their bodies touched, though his mind was cold with calculation. Her slow breaths fogged the air slightly—winter had come early this year—and he watched the way her dark hair fanned across the pillow, thinking of nothing in particular until the image of Yoriichi's sun-marked forehead surfaced unbidden. His fingers twitched. His wife stirred, murmuring something drowsy, and he stilled himself before turning onto his back to stare at the ceiling. 

She had always loved the world, even in her darkest moments. She believed that life was a precious gift, and she was grateful for every breath she took.

As she walked, her mind wondered, as she took it all in, she had ran from her father, not wishing to be part of his plots, schemes and plans, she now had a fresh chance at life. A chance to make things right, to protect those she loved, to perhaps even find happiness again. She didn't know what the future held, but she was determined to face it with the same quiet strength she had always possessed.

The forest around her was alive with the sounds of nature—birds singing, leaves rustling, the distant trickle of a stream. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes and letting the sounds wash over her. It was peaceful here, a stark contrast to the violence and bloodshed of her past. For the first time in a long time, she felt a sense of calm.

But then, a sudden rustling in the bushes ahead snapped her out of her reverie.

She stopped and stared forward, her body tensing instinctively. The rustling grew louder, accompanied by the faint sound of labored breathing. A wounded deer stumbled into view, its flank streaked with blood, eyes wide with panic. Behind it, the undergrowth shook violently—something was pursuing it. Her hand twitched toward the makeshift dagger she'd fashioned from a sharpened stick, her mind racing. Predators were common in these woods, but the speed and force of the movement suggested something far more dangerous.

Without hesitation, she stepped forward, placing herself between the deer and whatever lurked in the shadows. The injured creature froze, trembling, its breath ragged. She knelt beside it, her fingers brushing against the warm, sticky wound. A deep gash, likely from claws—unnaturally long, unnaturally precise. Her father's men. Her stomach tightened. She hadn't escaped them after all. As she looked up and heard footsteps.

“Who goes there …”

Look alive, little brother. No more kneeling at shrines, no more dull scrolls—just us and whatever we want.

That was the promise from running away from home. His gaze flickered to the distant silhouette of Pleasure Island, where lanterns already glowed like fireflies trapped in amber. The island pulsed with distant laughter, raucous and shrill, punctuated by the occasional crash of shattered glass.

He breathed deeply, tasting salt and something sickly beneath it—cotton candy fermenting in barrels, cheap sake spilled on hot wood. The air buzzed against his skin like static before a storm. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting sparks. He'd always sensed things others couldn't: the shift of demons in moonlight, the tremble of a blade before it snapped.

This island vibrated with wrongness.

Michikatsu was already blending into the throng of boys—faces flushed, eyes bright with rebellion. They shoved each other, laughing too loud, wearing their disobedience like medals. Some were barely older than toddlers, barefoot and streaked with dirt, gnawing stolen melons. Others preened in stolen finery, silk sleeves dangling. A boy with chapped lips spat at the deck and grinned when no one scolded him. The ferry creaked under their collective weight, groaning like a living thing.

He stood apart. The boys parted around him instinctively, not with fear, but with the unease of prey sensing something uncategorizable. He noted the hollows under their eyes—some from hunger, others from nights spent running. One clutched a wooden fox charm, its paint chipped. Another traced finger-marks on his forearm where his mother had gripped him too hard. They were all escapees, yes, but not just from parents.

From futures already carved out for them: rice fields, apprenticeships, graves.

The island exhaled. Sweet rot wafted from stalls heaped with melons split like skulls. Fireworks shrieked overhead, bursting into shapes that twisted midair—dragons becoming snakes, flowers wilting into screaming faces. Michikatsu was halfway up the gangplank already.

He stepped onto the dock. The wood pulsed underfoot, warm as living flesh. Boys stampeded past—toward the clatter of roulette wheels, the wet crunch of sugar cubes between teeth. One child, no older than five, dragged a stolen katana twice his height. The blade scraped sparks against stone. No one stopped him.

The island unfolded like a fever dream. Candy-striped tents sagged under their own garishness. A carousel spun too fast, its wooden horses’ eyes rolling wild. Popcorn rained from burst sacks, sticking to sweat-slick necks. Somewhere, glass shattered in a crescendo as he walked forward.

“Brother?”

Was this paradise?

It seemed more like hell!

As he knelt on the shore, his black robes soaked with seawater, clinging heavily to his form. The sand beneath him shifted as his fingers clenched into fists, grains embedding themselves under his nails like tiny, accusatory whispers. His breath came in ragged gasps—not from physical exertion, but from the rage boiling beneath his skin, a living entity threatening to shatter his composure wide open.

He had no desire to be here, yet he found himself with no alternative. The whistle dangled limply from his fingers, its bone-carved surface still warm from the Dōshi's throat. His arrival had been unavoidable; these monsters had to be dealt with, their grotesque, elongated limbs unfurling from the mist like puppets jerked into action by invisible strings. He could still taste the metallic tang of the man's final scream lingering on his tongue. 

Necessary. Every bit of it is necessary.

Slowly he rose to his feet. The movement was slow and intentional, akin to a blade being drawn from its sheath—no superfluous motion, just the certainty of steel meeting air. Sand trickled from his robes, each grain a fleeting witness to the burden he bore. The whistle, still held tightly between his fingers, throbbed with a dull warmth, as if the Dōshi's defiance had seeped into the bone. He gazed at it for a long moment, then carefully tucked it into the fold of his obi, as one might handle a venomous serpent.

“We are here now, we need to understand more of what we are dealing with.”

Outside, the city buzzed with life, a stark contrast to the stillness of her thoughts. She watched as a group of women passed by, their laughter ringing through the air like bells. It was a sound both foreign and familiar, and it tugged at something deep inside her.

The tea was bitter, just how she liked it. Strong enough to chase away the lingering doubts that crept in when the lanterns dimmed. She could feel the weight of breasts beneath the thin fabric of her robe, a constant reminder of were she was. It wasn't unpleasant, just… different. Like wearing a new set of armor that still needed breaking in. She sighed, her breath fogging the glass pane before her. The reflection staring back was undeniably hers, yet it still caught her off guard sometimes.

Those eyes—purple, piercing—were the same, though.

That much hadn't changed.

Outside, the pleasure district pulsed with artificial life: the faint twang of shamisen strings, drunken laughter that dissolved into coughs, the occasional sharp cry that could have been pleasure or pain. She'd stopped trying to tell the difference. A moth bumped against her window, drawn to the candlelight, its wings beating frantically against the rice paper screen. She wondered if it knew how easily she could crush it between her newly delicate fingers. The thought should've made her recoil, but instead, she felt a strange kinship with the creature—both trapped by forces they didn't choose.

The wooden floorboards creaked under her as she rose, her silk kimono whispering against skin. She traced the curve of her own hip absentmindedly, marveling at how the gesture no longer made her flinch. Somewhere down the hall, a client was already shouting for "the new girl"—a descriptor that clung to her like the heavy perfumes in the air. She didn't rush. Let him wait. In the sliver of mirror by her dressing table, she caught her own reflection adjusting the dark waves of hair that now fell past her shoulders. A ghost of her former self smirked back at her from behind those violet eyes.

Outside her sliding door, the brothel's evening symphony had begun: the rhythmic tapping of shamisen picks against taut strings, the wet slap of sandals against polished wood where someone had spilled sake again. The scent of burning incense couldn’t quite mask the underlying musk of sweat and sex. She inhaled deeply anyway, committing the stench to memory like a warrior memorizing battlefields. This was her arena now—not the open plains where swords clashed, but these dim corridors where gazes lingered and coins changed hands.

She knelt before the small vanity, the mirror’s surface marred by age and fingerprint smudges. She watched her own hands—paler now, the knuckles less pronounced—apply rouge to lips that still felt alien when she spoke. The brush trembled ever so slightly.

Not from fear, she told herself, but from the strange electricity humming under her skin these days, like her very blood had been rewired. Behind her reflection, shadows moved beyond the rice-paper walls: silhouettes of women leading men to private rooms, their practiced giggles cutting through the walls sharper than any blade.